The Schizophrenic Life of Suzie Sinclair
by Miss Wallflower
Summary: (Based on Bye Bye Birdie) Avid BBB fans might know Suzie as the girl who sings "It won't last, not at all..." during the Telephone Hour. But there's more to her than that, and she has her own unique spin on things.
1. My Life, Part One

**

* * *

**

**The Schizophrenic Life of Suzie Sinclair**

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is merely a product of my bored imagination.

My Life, Part One

I hate trains.

I mean, I really hate trains. I've tried to like them, and I've tried to quell this stupid petty hatred, but I just hate trains. This most likely derives from the fact that I spend about half my life on one. Overexposure. I bet that by the end of my life I will have been on about ten thousand trains. As of this very minute, I've been on five hundred eighty-eight trains. No joke. I keep count. Sick, isn't it? I'm pretty sure it's a compulsion. Either that or just a way to stay occupied on all five hundred eighty-eight of those train rides.

Maybe you wonder why I've been on so many trains at the tender age of fourteen-almost-fifteen, hmm? It's a reasonable question really; I've asked it a few times myself, at night when I get too analytical. Mostly it's my parents' fault – it's not a thing that I'm supposed to – or do – discuss, but my mother and father were never married to each other. That's why I have my mother's last name, Sinclair, even if Suzie Sinclair does make me sound like a bubbly budding reporter at the Daily News, the sort who likes to sit on desks with her legs crossed coquettishly. As far as the kids of Sweet Apple, Ohio, are concerned, my father is the man that my mother married instead of my actual dad, the man that I generally have very little to do with. Nobody has met my real father, and nobody knows my real father. They all think I'm always zipping off to New York City to visit my aunt Suzanne on my mother's side, for whom I was named. Even said "father" of mine thinks this, gullible fool he is. I do visit my aunt Suzanne, but I'm also visiting my father, my _real _father, taking all five hundred eighty-eight train rides to New York City and back to good old Sweet Apple, Ohio.

My double life, as I refer to it, does get tiring. In Sweet Apple, I'm forever pretending that the man my mother is married to is my real father, oh heaven forbid my mother's reputation be tarnished with a technically illegitimate child. (In contrast, my father could not care less; he's just a swinging New York bachelor kind of guy that just so happens to have a daughter.) Then in both Ohio and New York, there's the cynicism issue. My cynicism (or realism, as I prefer it called) is not appreciated by most teenagers or adults living in America in the 1950's, especially coming from such a girl as me, a perfect teenager with her whole life ahead of her. Really, it isn't that I'm a pessimist or anything. I'm just very honest and realistic about things. And of course, I'm forever trying to keep my lives distinctly separate.

When I go to the city (every couple of weekends or so, plus some holidays) I end up holing up at Dad's apartment some nights and staying with Aunt Suzanne the others. Dad and I do typical father-daughter stuff, mostly going out to eat or catching movies or plays. My mother is the one actually raising me, don't get confused – but I don't hold it against my father. He doesn't really get the parenting thing; we're more just buddies that share a gene pool. A girl only really needs one capable parent, and if the extra parent happens to be just a buddy, well, at least he's there. My friend Ursula Merkle, her father ran out on her and her mom when she was little (I've heard rumors that alcohol was involved – when isn't it?); then, in a crazy Disneyesque twist, our other friend Deborah Sue Miller's dad married Ursula's mother and now they're sisters. (Deborah Sue's mom died giving birth to her younger brother Karl.)

Aunt Suzanne is a sort of older sister type to me, even though she's the epitome of the perfect housewife. She has a daughter my age, Bonnie, and we all do things like go shopping at Macy's and drink tea at street-corner coffeehouses when I visit. In the winter we even go ice-skating at Rockefeller Center, though that isn't always the wisest idea as none of us are very coordinated. Bonnie introduced me to her friends Mary Elizabeth and Caroline, who, like any other right-minded teenage girls in America, are members of the Conrad Birdie Fan Club. Now, while I'm a member of the Sweet Apple branch, I went ahead and joined their branch too; after all, my costume is that of a right-minded teenage girl. New York Suzie, as I refer to the mask I wear when in New York, is actually rather neurotic and obsessive about Conrad Birdie-worship. She's the club's secretary and unofficial organizational whiz. (New York Suzie, who didn't come into existence until a few years ago, when I was finally allowed to visit my father, is modeled after the aforementioned Ursula, who is just about as neurotic and obsessive as it can get, especially when it comes to Conrad Birdie. New York Suzie is the most obnoxious of my facades.)

Really, though, it's all just subterfuge. You see, I may seem to be Suzie Sinclair, Loyal Conrad Birdie Fan and Absolutely Normal (Albeit A Bit Too Knowing) Teenager on the outside, but inside I'm Suzie Sinclair, Beatnik Poet On the Rise. That may be my favorite thing about New York City. After Aunt Suzanne and Uncle Trevor go to bed or Dad goes out for some other swinging bachelor's swinging city party, I sneak out to the real coffeehouses, the ones with dim lighting and coffee so strong it gives you a headache, and beatniks, real beatniks, with their berets and bongos and black everything, the sullen women and the moodily attractive older men. That's what I was meant for. I want to be around people with deep thoughts, thoughts that don't involve a certain greasy-haired gyrating rock star. At night I'll put on my black sweater and skirt, my panty hose, and I'll drink the extra-strong coffee and I'll listen to real poets present their real poetry. It's my inspiration. When I get home I'll pour out my soul in real poetry, hidden safely in a box under my bed. Nobody would even dare look there, and nobody knows about my dreams. Nobody would understand, not even Bonnie. Everyone is so content on just doing what is expected of them, but I want more than that.

My mother naturally hates my visits to the city. She hates that I have a life away from her and her husband (I refuse to call him my stepfather) and the pristine perfection of Sweet Apple, Ohio. She hates that I think for myself. She may not know that I dream of beatnik poetry, but she knows that I think for myself. And most of all she hates that I spend time with my father. I don't think that they ever really got along, and I can't imagine why they even spent time together, but they did, and I've been made to suffer the consequences. (If you want to really get technical, I am the consequence, but I prefer not to think of myself that way. I don't let technicalities upset me.)

It's sort of odd, really; I didn't get in contact with my father until I was nine (too old to argue with, my mother says) and didn't start visiting him until a year later. (I love my mother as I should, but she's about as paranoid as a lone goldfish in a room full of kittens.) She never liked the idea of my visits from the start, and she's been holding them over my head since then, threatening to keep me from going if I ever misbehave. It doesn't really matter much; someday I'm going to go without permission and stay forever. What a day that will be.

Until that day, I am here, living alternately an urban and a suburban life of lies. In both lives, there are parents to placate, friends to fake out, one very specific teen idol to avoid whenever possible. Despite the small similarities of my life, I end up feeling rather akin to Jekyll and Hyde: there's Sweet Apple Suzie (at once intelligent, perhaps too much so, but with an unnamable sort of edge that the girls qualify as "city sophistication") New York Suzie (the neurotic, obsessive, funny one), and Real Suzie, the Suzie that only comes out at night in the city, the beatnik Suzie who's honest with herself and everyone else.


	2. Welcome to Sweet Apple

Welcome to Sweet Apple

If Sweet Apple, Ohio, has a reigning teen princess sort, it would most certainly be Kimberly Anne MacAfee, otherwise known as Kim. Whether we realize it or not, Kim's behavior subconsciously influences ours. We tend to glorify her for reasons we will never truly understand. And don't get me wrong, I like Kim fine, but I've never comprehended why people are put on pedestals, be it locally (in Kim's case), or nationally (in the case of Conrad Birdie). Maybe it's because we don't trust our own judgment, that we feel like we need to be blindly led by someone else, a public figure of sorts. I could be entirely wrong, but if Kim MacAfee was jumping off a cliff I bet you we'd all go flailing after her. And if Conrad Birdie was going off the cliff, well, we'd all be passed out with fright and freefalling after him.

Kim seems to be the one holding us all together. Her very best friend is the previously aforementioned Ursula, good old obsessive Ursula, with know-it-all Deborah Sue a close second. Then there's the rest of us girls, all of us falling somewhere between thirteen and fifteen (naturally Kim's the oldest): Bridget, the richest, snootiest girl in town, and Daisy Doe, who seems to want everything Bridget has and be everything Bridget is; Helen, who's almost too conscious about her looks and very being; there's Charity, who's a darling but a bit prim at times; and honey-sweet Nancy; innocent Alice, the Mayor's daughter; perky, playful Margie; the enigmatically un-fitting in Penelope; and me, smart, sophisticated Suzie, always an alliteration. Without Kim, we would become a senselessly assembled group of acquaintances; Kim unifies us as friends and Conrad Birdie fans. Yippee.

Often when you think of the sort of teen princess that Kim is, you think of some perfect, beautiful, mean girl, loved and hated by all. (_That's_ Bridget.) Actually, Kim's a nice person, and neither perfect nor beautiful. She's certainly cute but not truly beautiful. (Is anybody truly beautiful?) To be quite honest, Kim is a sort of composite of all of us. She has a healthy blend of Alice's naïveté, Margie's playfulness, my "sophistication", that swirls together to create the very image of Sweet Apple teenage perfection. God love Kim, but she's a bit surreal at times. She's very much entranced with the concept of the ideal man and being together forever, but at the same time she's desperate to be grown up and, at times, sultry. And let me tell you, _none _of the girls know the first thing about being sultry. (To be honest, Real Suzie is actually quite good at being sultry; she does it a lot when she goes to New York and sneaks out. However, New York Suzie and Sweet Apple Suzie have a habit of tying Real Suzie up in the closet whenever she gets her sultry impulses, much to Real Suzie's hormonal frustration.)

It isn't that I don't like the girls – they're sweethearts, you really couldn't ask for better friends. They've just been utterly brainwashed with Conrad Birdie mania. They don't realize that there is life beyond Sweet Apple, Ohio and the pastel perfection that is their lives. Their mothers stay home and do the cooking, their fathers have good stable jobs, they have their sweater sets, their crinolines, their Conrad Birdie records. They live in the white picket-fence idyllic America, never realizing there's another world just miles away. Sweet Apple's a nice place to grow up, I suppose – but I yearn for a freer environment, the kind only the wilds of New York City can offer.


	3. Goin' Steady

Goin' Steady

Naturally, when Kim started seeing Hugo Peabody, we were all on the edge of our seats waiting to see how it would go. I never have high hopes for relationships; have my parents given me any reason to? My mother, with her cover-up marriage to my alleged stepfather; my father and his swinging bachelor-pad lifestyle. They aren't exactly the best relationship role models. (_I_ prefer to think of relationships as opportunities to express extreme passion – if it lasts, it lasts, but it never really does, so why not have a bit of fun while you're at it?) But for some reason, I've always had an especially large problem seeing Hugo and Kim together. Hugo is a nice guy and all, but he's a bit of a geek, not to mention that he's on the hopelessly, desperately (albeit sweetly) clingy side; whilst Kim is Sweet Apple Perfection embodied in one human being. We all expected her to go for Freddie or someone; one of the more wild and daring sorts of guys to satisfy her romanticism. But no, she picked Hugo Peabody, simpering, adolescent Hugo Peabody. This was going around for days and days, all of us watching them carefully, looking for signs of regression or progression in their relationship. And of course Kim was the first of us to hook a sort-of-kind-of-almost boyfriend-type person, even if it was Hugo Peabody.

The day we find out about Hugo's pinning Kim on the back of that glorious yellow school bus, the party line goes wild. I imagine it like a life support machine, wobbling up and down at a supersonic speed. The girls are ecstatic; the boys annoyed. All of us are belting our little hearts out – for some reason, whenever we hit the polar extreme of an emotion, we break out in song. It's an unnatural phenomenon that I would study did I not have plans for My Life As An NYC Beatnik. It's a ravishing summer afternoon, the sort of day that always makes me a bit cynical, and we're all plugged into our telephones, spreading the word.

_Hi Nancy!_

_Hi Helen!_

_What's the story, morning glory?_

_What's the tale, nightingale?_

_Did you hear about Hugo and Kim?_

I'm recording a new poem in my journal when the telephones start to jingle. I'm stricken with writer's block this afternoon – for once, the manic telephone conversation is a welcome distraction.

_Hi Margie!_

_Hi Alice!_

_What's the story, morning glory?_

_What's the word, hummingbird?_

_Have you heard about Hugo and Kim?_

_Did they really get pinned? _

_Did she kiss him and cry?_

_Did he pin the pin on,_

_Or was he too shy?_

_Well, I heard they got pinned. Yeah, yeah._

_I was hopin' they would.Uh-huh._

_Now they're livin' at last,He's gone..._

_Goin' steady for-_

Now, the party line is an odd thing. We're all listening to each others' private conversations, never mind they're all on the same topic. And poor Harvey Johnson – nice guy, not bad looking past the glasses and hair problem, but nerdier and even more desperate than Hugo. He's really jumping on top of the whole _goin' steady_ idea, I see – I can just imagine him up in his bedroom with the phone book open, calling girls systematically.

_Hello Mr. Henkel, this is Harvey Johnson. Can I speak to Penelope-Ann?_

_Is it true about Kim?Penelope?_

_I just knew it somehow!About the prom..._

_I must call her right up- Saturday?_

_I can't talk to you now!_

We get caught up in the moment, us teenage girls. I can see it in my head, all laid out like a cheesy movie-musical: the screen all split up into odd shapes to accommodate us as we exist in our bedrooms, contorted and be-bopping in all manner of bizarre poses.

_Goin' steady!You know it, man!_

_Goin' steady!It's crazy, man!_

_Goin' steady!You know it –_

And then I do a stupid thing. Sweet Apple Suzie leaves her watchpost for a minute to get a bottle of Coca-Cola, and Real Suzie steps out into the open air, proclaiming her slightly contemptuous opinion for all the kids to hear. Sweet Apple Suzie promptly runs back to her watchpost, covering Real Suzie's pessimism with a remark full of patented Sweet Apple-brand shallowness.

_It won't last!_

_Not at all!_

_He's too thin,_

_She's too tall._

I can just see the girls giving me the funniest looks – "She's too tall"? Kim doesn't hit five foot six on her tiptoes. Oh, if only I'd gone with my first impulse – replacing "not at all" with "not a prayer", and "he's too thin, she's too tall" with "she's too cool, he's too square". At least that actually makes sense. Hugo is desperately square. He wears a sweatervest, for goodness' sake.

_Hello Mr. Miller, this is Harvey Johnson. Can I speak to Deborah Sue?_

_Hiya Hugo, hiya stupid._

_Whaddya wanna go get pinned for?_

Kim's steady he may be, but the other guys can be really harsh on Hugo. They're probably only angry because he's gone and gotten a girlfriend before they have. Then again, guys tease each other and it doesn't mean a darned thing. I'll never understand it.

_Well I heard they got pinned.Hey, ya meathead! _

_I was hopin' they would!Lost your marbles?_

_Now they're livin' at last -Are ya nutty?_

_Goin' steady for..._

Sometimes, when we all start singing, I try to see how bright and obnoxious I can get my voice to sound. Just to see if anybody notices. This is one of those times. I think my smile's frozen on my face!

_Hello Mrs. Garfein, is Charity home from school yet?_

_Well I heard they got pinned!Goin' steady!She saw him._

_I was hopin' they would!Goin' steady!She dug him._

_Now they're livin' at last...Goin' steady!She nailed him!_

_Goin' steady for good!_

My, but these impromptu lyrics are creative. I do believe that my teddy bear could come up with more inventive songs. Over and over again... can you see why I try to occupy myself with little diversions such as singing especially bright?

_If ya gotta go, that's the way to go!_

_When they got you hooked, _

_Then you're really cooked. _

_Whatcha gonna do?_

_Whatcha gonna do?_

Well, let's see. I think _I'm_ going to go fill my pockets with stones like Virginia Woolf and go for a nice little wade in the river. The Sweet Apple monotony is driving me insane.

_Well I heard they got pinned.Oh man!_

_I was thinkin' they would!Oh man!_

_Now they're livin' at lastOh man!_

_Goin' steady for good!_

_Goin' steady! Goin' steady!_

_Goin' steady, steady for good._

_Goin' steady! Goin' steady!_

_Goin' steady, steady for good._

Dear lord. If I ever get a steady (not likely – my sensuous beatnik boys usually fear commitment, and like me, wish to live in the moment) I'm going to call the girls and beg them _not _to sing about it. I'm getting sick of those two words...

_He's in love with Kim, Kim's in love with him!_

_We-ell well, doo-oo-oo tell. _

_We-ell well, doo-oo-oo tell._

_That's the way it should be!Oh yeah!_

_They'll be happy I know!Oh yeah._

_Goin' steady's for me.Oh yeah._

_That's the way it should go!_

As usual, I beg to differ. Goin' steady is not the way it should go. Quite the opposite really. Goin' steady can be so constricting. It's a terrible thing, really. Bad feelings all around.

_Goin' steady!Goin' steady!_

_Goin' steady!Goin' steady!_

_Steady for good!_

_Goin' steady!_

_Goin' steady!Goin' steady!_

_Goin' steady-_

_Ohhhhhhhhh….. yeah!_


	4. Introducing the New York Crowd

Introducing the New York Crowd

Five-hundred eighty-nine.

I'm sprawled over two seats in a most unladylike fashion, my pedal pusher-clad legs crossed at the ankles. If my mother was here, she'd have a fit. "Where are your manners, Suzie? Sit up like a lady." Nobody wants to sit next to me, the serious teenage girl with too much black on and a large hardback book with no pictures. I am far too literary for a girl my age. It's Jack Kerouac, which I chanced upon at a bookstore that I visited one night when I got tired of drinking coffee till I got a headache. Brilliant stuff. I doubt anybody in Sweet Apple has even heard of Jack Kerouac, let alone carries him at a bookstore.

The train ride drags on longer than usual today. Echoes of our godforsaken Telephone Hour, as I'm now referring to it (it certainly _felt _like an hour, though it was only a few minutes), are ringing in my head, on a constant repeat. It's all I can do to keep from finding a gun to bore it out of my brain with – but I fear that wouldn't do it, and plus then I would have a large, bleeding, gaping hole in my head. Somehow, that doesn't seem like the most appealing option.

Time ticks on and I doze off with my head against the window, my book still on my lap. My glasses – cat-eyed, sprinkled with rhinestones – rest on my nose awkwardly, no doubt causing me to look like a very young librarian. Eh. _C'est la vie._ I don't wake until we pull into Penn Station. A porter is jostling with my suitcase above my head, creating an incessant drone that almost cancels out the still-present echoes of _Goin' steady! Goin' steady! _in my pathetic head. I have been in suburbia far too long.

As I step off the train, trying to remove the repetitive choruses of the Sweet Apple Teenagers from my brain and concentrating on my suitcases slamming into my knees over and over, _bang-bang-bang_, I know I won't have to look for my welcoming committee. This is for one _very _specific reason.

"Suuuuuuuuuziiiiiiieeeeee!"

There it is.

"Bonnnniiiiiiiiiieeee!" I call back, dropping my luggage and hugging my cousin. No traces of obvious sarcasm drip out of my ear-splitting shriek. I am a wonderful actress. Mary Elizabeth and Caroline appear behind Bonnie, with the other members of our branch of the Conrad Birdie Fan Club – bubbly Dorothy, and the twins, Betty and Marilyn - trailing behind them and Aunt Suzanne bringing up the rear. We are a happy lot.

"Oh, Suzie, it's been so long," says Marilyn, delicately hugging me and air-kissing me on either cheek with all the coquettishness of her name-twin, the famed Miss Monroe. I see some college boys nearby, admiring her charm. Lucky duck. College boys are so much more mature than the ones my own age, I've noticed. Now, there's a thing that Kim MacAfee and I can agree on: older men. We just think of different older men. She wants the posey, pretty-boy type; I go for the smoldering, intellectual ones.

The girls murmur assorted niceties as Aunt Suzanne picks up my suitcase. "Have a nice trip, honey?" she asks, all beaming wifely purity.

"You bet," I smile. "It was swell." New York Suzie uses lots of words like "swell" or "spiffy" with a completely straight face. Sometimes I think that both New York Suzie and Sweet Apple Suzie act almost _too _normal, just to see if anyone notices.

"I hope you didn't eat on the train, because we found the most darling café to have lunch at!" exclaims Dorothy. "Really dainty, lots of little flowers – you'll love it."

Real Suzie is thinking, You know what I'd love more would be if those college boys came with us... Instead, New York Suzie says, "Gee, that would be spiffy." Maybe back in Sweet Apple, where the girls know me better, I would be called on my over-enthusiasm. Then again, Sweet Apple Suzie would never say 'spiffy'. She at least has a little bit of integrity, unlike New York Suzie, who sacrificed hers on the altar of the Conrad Birdie Fan Club years ago.

Aunt Suzanne takes my suitcase to the apartment while we girls go out for lunch at the darling café. It's an adorable little hole-in-the-wall, Dorothy's right, but it's certainly not a place I'd frequent of my own free will. My two main requirements for a top-notch café are Good Coffee and Good Men. I see neither good coffee nor good men here, and so I allow myself to space out while the other girls natter, tossing in a few choice phrases every now and then, things like, "Oh, wow!" and "That's swell!"

Then Caroline drops the bomb. The very large, very dangerous atomic bomb.

"So I'm reading the paper this morning, and it was talking about the Conrad's going in the army -" I've always thought it funny how the girls refer to him like one of their personal friends: 'Oh, Conrad's just released a new record!' 'Did you hear Conrad's doing a concert here in two weeks?' – "And how for his official send-off, his manager picked some lucky girl to kiss him good-bye on the Ed Sullivan Show!"

This is news to all of us, and we all let out a sigh in perfect unison. "Oh, wow, lucky thing," we all murmur.

"What's her name?" asks Mary Elizabeth, with a blend of jealousy and admiration for the mystery girl.

"Kim MacAfee."

Well, pardon me while I scrape my jaw off the floor and pop my eyes back into their sockets. Is that so? Kim MacAfee, going to kiss Conrad Birdie on the Ed Sullivan Show. Before Real Suzie can say anything, New York Suzie quickly pushes her out of the way and interrupts, with an enthusiastic, "Gee, what a lucky duck! Wish it was me."

"Yeah," the other girls sigh. To them, Kim is the Luckiest Girl Ever. They have no personal ties to this golden goddess of a teenager, or so she's portrayed amongst her peers. To me, this is just incredible. This is going to _greatly _complicate my façades.

"Oh, I have the best plan!" Bonnie suddenly exclaims. "I've been thinking about it since you brought it up. Caroline, when did it say that Conrad's leaving?"

"Nine o'clock on Sunday morning," replies Caroline. "Why?"

"Well, we're going to give him a proper good-bye! We'll meet him at Penn Station and wave him off. Maybe even get his autograph!" She rummages in her purse for a pen, then hands it to me. "Suzie, take notes? Use a napkin or something. We can all meet up at eight forty-five, okay? Suzie, aren't you leaving on Sunday? It'll be so convenient! We love you Conrad, then whisk off our darling Suzie – we won't even have to make an extra trip! Yes, we can meet at eight forty-five and sing the Birdie song until Conrad shows up. Then we can try and talk to him, tell him how much he means to us, okay? And then we can get his autograph before he leaves! Oh, it's a perfect plan, don't you think? We only have a day and a half to organize, so let's get to it!"


	5. The Outward Emergence of Real Suzie Pt 1

The Outward Emergence of Real Suzie, Part One

After an afternoon spent Birdie-planning with all my New York City pals and then dinner with Aunt Suzanne, Uncle Trevor and Bonnie (who can't stop chattering about our Great Plan to Meet Conrad At the Train Station), I make an early night of it and lie in the guest bed in Aunt Suzanne's Apartment Beautiful. It's not too hot, not too cold, and all of my relatives are soundly sleeping long before I am. I wish I could call one of the girls; Bridget, Nancy, Deborah Sue. I'm sure Ursula's spread the word about Kim's getting to kiss Conrad Birdie already; that's sort of Ursula's job, spread anything that Kim tells her around. That really isn't why I want to call; for some reason, there's this part of Real Suzie that just wants to confess to someone. She's getting tired of only manifesting herself on nights in New York City and in the form of rebellious gestures like black pedal pushers and high-heeled dressy shoes (gasp! So grown-up!). I can't tell Bonnie or anyone; New York Suzie doesn't even go so far as to make those little rebellious gestures like Sweet Apple Suzie does, plus, I'm only here occasionally, and I really want to tell someone that will be there _always_, understanding my confusing head. I'm sure everyone has their secret, dark desires; maybe sharing mine with someone else, and in turn hearing theirs, would make me feel better.

Until then, I must let my secret, dark, desirous side come out to play. Black turtleneck, straight skirt, panty-hose, beret, purse with a twenty-dollar bill (there's a five stuffed down my brassiere, just in case of an emergency). One of the few benefits of my mother's Mr. Wonderful: I won't let him deal with me emotionally, and so he feels he must compensate financially. He has quite a bit of money that materializes in my hand whenever necessary. I take Aunt Suzanne's house key from the counter. What's the time, what's the time? 11:43, close to midnight. Real Suzie's going out tonight and nothing can stop her.

I hop up and down in the elevator to get my blood flowing and dash out the door of the ritzy apartment building, running all the way to the Little Black Box, my favorite coffee joint in the whole city. I'm fired up, my temper flaring; I'm so tired of lying to be culturally conformed. Why is it not okay just to _not like Conrad Birdie_? Teenagers everywhere are so consumed with this slick-talking fool. It drives me insane. It isn't even real music. It's just _not good_.

A waiter approaches me. "Hey, chick, you're lookin' angry. Want some reefer?"

I appraise the waiter carefully. Hmm. Decent, but not reefer-worthy. "No thanks. Just coffee. Extra sugar, _s'il vous plait._"

"Your wish is my command, babe," says Mr. Reefer Man, scurrying away to fetch my coffee and I tune into the poets reciting. It's an open-mike night, I gather, and as I drink the soon present coffee, I debate going up there myself. I've never gone before, but I'm boiling with anger over my forced conformity. Once my cup is empty – the Little Black Box makes the best coffee ever – and I'm sufficiently caffeinated, I fly on stage, thinking it's too late to turn back now. The emcee makes a rather rude insinuation involving my temper and body, but I just throw one back at him and begin reciting the first thing that comes to mind.

"Trapped in a rainbow. Lost girl in the epitome of small-town America. Why does 'suburban' say 'urban' in it? Affectation, conformity. Hair grease and swivel hips – life is a void."

The crowd bursts into applause. My heart is going _thump_-_thump_-_thump_. I am appreciated, wanted. I am a real beatnik now, even if I have to go back to pretending to be Loyal Conrad Birdie Fan #32½ tomorrow and the day after. I head for my seat and am bypassed by an attractive young gentleman of about eighteen or nineteen.

"Hello, mysterious beauty. May I treat you to another cup of coffee?" Now _this_ one is reefer-worthy.

"Certainly," I say flirtatiously. His face conveys so much: sensitivity, an impetuous nature. I must have him for my own.

"And do you have a name, mysterious beauty?"

"Yes. Do you?" I try to avoid giving my name to men I never intend to see more than once. I'm hoping that this decidedly adorable human will just keep calling me 'mysterious beauty' and leave it at that. It's quite flattering.

"Yes, I do. What I meant is, what _is _your name?"

"Ava," I lie. It's the first name that comes to mind. He walks me to my table and we sit down.

"As in Gardner?"

"Fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly, I've gotta love one man till I die," I say, internally thanking my mother for dragging me to see _Show Boat _years ago. I'm hoping when I say it, I add a sultry quality to the monogamous lyrics. Real Suzie is very sultry. She's quite good at it.

"I'm Smokey," offers my smoldering new man.

"As in the bear?" He nods, blushing a bit. "Well, how about you get my coffee, and then we can talk forest fires and woodland critters and whatever else you want." Real Suzie – or should I say Ava – is in full force now, flirting hard and acting like a licentious tramp. I've read my poetry, now I want my man _du jour_.

"Sounds great, Ava," says Smokey, departing with my empty cup. He seems like a sweet guy, maybe not the most intelligent of the lot (his name is Smokey for God's sake) but certainly a sweet guy. How far shall I go? Second base? Third, maybe? Let's see how good he is and decide based on his credentials. He better be as good as the coffee.


	6. For He's a Fine Upstanding

For He's A Fine Upstanding, Patriotic, Healthy Normal American Boy

The next morning my suitcase is packed and I'm at Penn Station before any of the other girls. New York Suzie is neurotic about punctuality; she has to be on time and organized no matter what. (Real Suzie was yelling at New York Suzie for waking her up so early after the rendezvous with a certain affectionate fellow named after a forest-fire-fighting grizzly bear, who was even better than the coffee.)

New York Suzie is joined by cousin Bonnie at 8:40. "I just couldn't wait any longer," Bonnie exclaims upon spotting New York Suzie. "To think – in just a few minutes, we'll be seeing Conrad! Oh!" She literally clasps her hands to her heart with glee.

"It's the living end," agrees New York Suzie enthusiastically, employing a phrase she doesn't even understand.

Mary Elizabeth and Caroline enter together at 8:43. "We knew you would flip if we were late," says Mary Elizabeth. "Besides, we didn't want to miss a single thing." Caroline nods half-heartedly, her normal buoyant self seemingly suppressed.

"Have you seen the others?" asks Bonnie. We shrug, watching a nearby clock tick out two slow minutes.

"Where _are _they?" a frustrated New York Suzie says as the clock ticks to 8:46. She's entering what Bonnie calls Anxiety Mode. New York Suzie enters said mode a lot, and Real Suzie often reminds her that it's usually the fault of Bonnie's dippy friends.

"Should we start without them?" Mary Elizabeth suggests hesitantly at 8:47.

"I suppose we'll have to," sighs New York Suzie. Real Suzie performs an I-told-you-so jig all around my mind. Marilyn and Betty and Dorothy are just as flaky as can be. With Mary Elizabeth and Bonnie casting quick glances over their shoulders, I count to three and we begin rehearsing our song.

_We love you Conrad, oh yes we do._

_We love you Conrad, and we'll be true._

Just as a depressed Caroline floats off to a nearby bench, Marilyn, Betty and Dorothy scamper in with sheepish smiles. I glare but we continue singing, never missing a beat.

_When you're not near us, we're blue._

_Oh Conrad, we love you!_

An anxious man in a suit approaches us. Bonnie spoke of a manager, Mr. Peterson. This must be him. "Hi, girls, sorry I'm late. Now let's go over the Birdie song one more time before we go down to the train."

_We love you Conrad, oh yes we do._

_We love you Conrad..._

"Oh, little girl, you can sing with us if you want," he says, taking notice of the forlorn Caroline sitting off to the side. When he gets no response, he asks us, "What's wrong with her?"

"Oh, she's just sad because Conrad's going into the army and she'll be too old for him when he gets out," Mary Elizabeth replies. Ah. So that's it. What a... perfectly... legitimate reason. Caroline's barely thirteen.

"I think she's still got a few good years left," Mr. Peterson says. I think he's joking around, and this makes me like him more than I like most adults. "Look, why don't you girls go down to Track 12 and I'll talk to her." Shrugging, Mary Elizabeth leads us off to Track 12, where Conrad will be. "And stay out of the bar!"

The last remark elicits a giggle, but as soon as we're out of Mr. Peterson's earshot, New York Suzie begins ratting the girls out. "Why were you late? No excuse is good enough," I say, invoking a tired parentism.

"Got stuck in traffic," Marilyn smiles, employing her usual coquettishness.

"That coy act doesn't work on me! You said you'd be here at 8:45 and you didn't show up until 8:48! That's _three minutes_."

"And you know, in five minutes we'll all be seeing Conrad, so what does it _really _matter?" says Marilyn.

"Gee whiz. Conrad Birdie," sighs Betty, ever a follower.

"Now _why _is Caroline behaving so oddly?" asks Bonnie, changing the subject quickly. "She's being terribly dramatic. I mean, it's tragic that Conrad's leaving, but it's not as if he would go for her. She's so childish." Surprisingly, Mary Elizabeth rolls her eyes at Bonnie.

"And who, pray tell, _would _meet up to Conrad's standards? Certainly it isn't you," she says.

"Children, children," Dorothy chimes in, "Behave, all of you. Honestly." The bickering girls regain their composure and I stifle a laugh. Are they really arguing over who has a chance with dating Conrad? _Really_?

"Oh, Mary Elizabeth, I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry," apologizes Bonnie.

"I'm sorry too. I guess Conrad's leaving is just getting to me," Mary Elizabeth states, and they reconcile with a brief hug. By now, we're dangerously near Track 12, and the entrance of our favorite, argument-worthy rock star is heralded by a hapless police officer, whom we try to bombard in order to reach Conrad, who enters dramatically, flanked by Mr. Peterson and a tall, no-nonsense Hispanic woman.

"Eeeee!" we scream, making rabid attempts to grab at Conrad as the police officer holds us back. Poor guy: what must he have dreamed of as a child? Certainly not this, being a wall of restraint for screaming teenyboppers, one of whom (Caroline) is trying to crawl through his legs to get by and touch Conrad.

"Hey, Conrad, howsabout answering a few questions?" shouts a reporter. She's not the sort that my full name invokes, but rather the brassy, perennially pushy, trenchcoat-wearing sort. "Like how do you feel about going into the army?"

"How does he feel? You ask how he feels? He's much too shy to tell you, so I'll tell you how he feels," Mr. Peterson says in a rush as the woman pushes Conrad out of the way of the reporters and we teens strike a carefully calculated pose. It seems that the managers have the same tendency to break into song as the Sweet Apple teenagers do.

_Brave and eager, strangely humble, proud to be a plain G.I._

Pulling Conrad with her, Mr. Peterson's secretary (I think she's his secretary) joins in the song.

_He will gladly face those bullets, for he's not afraid to die._

And then, with our arms held like an operatic chorus, we pitch in our two cents as well.

_For he's a fine upstanding, patriotic, healthy normal American boy!_

"And that's why he volunteered for-" Mr. Peterson begins.

"Volunteered? I thought he was drafted!" exclaims the female reporter.

"And he appealed – three times!" adds another reporter. Clearly unnerved by this statement, the female secretary-manager shoves Conrad into our cluster of teenyboppers with a shout of "Sing!". Bonnie and Mary Elizabeth reach for his shoulders, Caroline and Marilyn snuggle into his arms, Betty and Dorothy hug his legs, and I grab his writs, and we sail into another chorus of the infamous Birdie song.

_We love you Conrad, oh yes we do._

_We love you Conrad, and we'll be true._

_When you're not near us, we're blue._

_Oh Conrad, we love you!_

Mr. Peterson applauds, telling us, "Very nice!" as Conrad pulls out a pen and we wave our arms in his face, _Sign me! Sign me! _"What's the pitch on that Hollywood starlet, Conrad?" asks the female reporter. "Are you two engaged?"

The rumor mill is spinning madly. Conrad, engaged? This is enough to set the girls off. Dorothy and Betty embrace each other tearfully from their positions on the floor. Caroline looks utterly devastated. She may be the right age, but what's the point if he's taken? Bonnie and Mary Elizabeth glare at him with looks that say, How could you not even tell us? I comfort a hysterical Marilyn, allowing Real Suzie to shine through and give Conrad a look-what-you've-done glare. I hate seeing my friends cry, and flaky though she is, Marilyn is my friend. All through our frenzy, Mr. Peterson and his secretary spout some lies to make us feel better. "Is he engaged? Is Conrad engaged? There's absolutely nothing to the rumor he's engaged!" she begins. Mr. Peterson continues, then, by song.

_She's a real pal, like a sister, but it doesn't mean a thing!_

_And that eighteen carat diamond… it was just a friendship ring!_

_For he's a fine upstanding, patriotic, healthy normal American boy!_

"Then why was her husband so mad?" asks the male reporter. We gasp and Mr. Peterson cries, "Sing!", pulling Conrad out of our circle and back over to his female counterpart.

_We love you Conrad, oh yes we do._

_We love you Conrad, and we'll be true._

"I'll never forget Conrad's first words when he heard he's been accepted into the Armed Forces. 'Say, Mr. Peterson,' he cried eagerly, 'Do you suppose I can get assigned to the front-line trenches? That way I'll be sure to get me one of those dirty Jerries!'" Now the gathered adults have their turn to gasp, and I can't believe Mr. Peterson made such a politically incorrect mistake, though I pretend to be befuddled like all the other teenagers. Of course none of them understand the term.

"Albert!" exclaims his secretary.

"Or whoever's dirty this time," he hastily covers.

"Hey, Mr. Peterson, give us the real scoop, is Conrad still drinking a lot?" asks the female reporter. Now _everyone _gasps. "Conrad doesn't drink!" Betty mouths at me. "No, of course not," I mouth back, my eyebrows knitted together with concern.

"Now listen here, this gossip must stop!" says the secretary. "He goes to church each Sunday and he doesn't touch a drop!" As Mr. Peterson sings, we all bounce up and down in rhythm and then segue into a perfect patriotic march, complete with syncopated saluting.

_He's as decent as a minister, he's as sober as a judge._

_He subscribes to every charity and his hobby's making fudge!_

_For he's a fine upstanding, patriotic, healthy normal American boy!_

"Is it true that you found Conrad in a reform school?" both reporters query, obtaining a veritable amount of righteous anger from the crowd. "Reform school?" Bonnie whispers to me with wide eyes. That explains a lot, Real Suzie thinks bitterly. She then breaks into Round Two of the I-told-you-so dance while the managers try to counter what is so obviously the truth.

"That is a lie! A lie through and through! I'll tell you where he came from, here's the story and it's true!" both Mr. Peterson and his female counterpart recite in unison. He strides over to the teenagers and she walks to the adults, both spinning stories so fake that they sound almost plausible.

_He was born in Indochina...He was born in old Virginnie..._

_Son of missionaries there...On a thousand-acre farm..._

_Very poor and very hungry...From a line of wealthy planters..._

_What a cruel life to bear!Full of genteel Southern charm..._

_Then he drifted down to Hong Kong...Every evening by the river..._

_To a waterfront saloon...In the moonlight he would croon..._

_That is where I heard him singing...That's where Conrad started singing..._

'_Neath that dirty Hong Kong moon!'Neath that sweet plantation moon!_

Everyone gets into the act now, the adults being patriotic, the teenagers being obsessive.

_We love you Conrad, oh yes we do.Oh, beautiful for spacious skies._

_We love you Conrad, and we'll be true.For amber waves of grain._

_When you're not near us, we're blue.For purple mountain's majesty_

_Oh Conrad, we love you!Across the fruited plain._

_Oh, oh, Conrad, we love you!God bless America..._

_We love you Conrad, we'll be true!God bless America..._

_For he's a fine upstanding, average modest, patriotic, healthy normal American, American boy!_

Spectacularly, we all strike a pose with our arms in the air like the finale of a big dance number in a musical, then after a beat, we all wave Conrad good-bye and rush off.

"Love you, Suze! Come back soon!" the girls cry, sending me off to my Sweet Apple doom.


	7. I Hereby Promise

I Hereby Promise to be Loyal, Courteous, Steadfast, and True...

As before, my fellow train-goers ignore me. Though I'm wearing a skirt and a rather bright sweater, I must still give off rebellious-teenager vibes. Honestly, though, today I wouldn't mind some company. Real Suzie is still itching to spill all her dirty little secrets to someone, get rid of the Sweet Apple/New York/Real divisions, though she can't decide exactly what's brought about all of this desire for truth out. I feel like _telling _someone, telling them everything. Maybe it's watching all the lying at Penn Station – a reverse reaction, a desire to cancel out the lies that I've seen in action.

The only company I'm avoiding is Conrad Birdie. I know I'll be constantly thrust into his presence at home, so I'm taking advantage of my Conrad-Free Time while I still have it. Oh, the girls would die if they knew I was on the same train as Conrad Birdie. I bet if they were here they would try to sit behind him and listen to him breathe or something equally ridiculous. I can imagine it perfectly. Deborah Sue and Charity would sit on the seat right behind his and press their ears to it, Ursula would walk into the aisle and pretend to trip so he would help her up and – gasp! – _touch her_.

After desperately trying to concentrate on Kerouac, I straighten my skirt and dash off to the ladies' room in search of a random traveler to keep company with. Nobody's there when I go in, but as I'm coming out of the stall I bump into Mr. Peterson's secretary powdering her face. "Hello," I say. "I'm Suzie. You're with Conrad, right?" Her eyes narrow and I realize that what I just said makes me seem like the teenybopper I'm pretending to be. "Sorry. I don't mean it like that. You just look familiar."

"You were with the other girls at the station?" she asks. I nod. She hasn't turned around, but rather is looking at my reflection in the mirror. "And now you're going to Sweet Apple?" I nod again, with the politeness expected of a teenager when she's being questioned by an adult. "Are you stalking Conrad?"

I have to laugh at this. "Goodness, no. It's a long story, but the gist of it is, I live in Sweet Apple but my cousin Bonnie lives in the city and I was visiting her and by an odd stroke of fate, I ended up on this same train back home." I say this all in one breath, and by the end I'm gasping.

"How lucky for you, then. To be on the same train as Conrad." I nod yet again at her comment. I feel a pattern emerging.

"Tell me, Suzie, do you like Conrad?" she asks me. She's still looking at me in the mirror, not yet turned around to face me.

"As a person? A musician? An idol?"

"All three."

"Well... not so much, not exactly, definitely not." Yes that's right: _I DON'T LIKE CONRAD BIRDIE. _Say it loud and proud.

"Then why are you..."

"It's a long story."

"Is everything a long story with you?" she asks, and I nod again, amusing her to no end. Finally she turns around. "Nice to meet you, Suzie. I'm Rose Alvarez." She pauses, then fiddles with her compact. "Do you have a boyfriend, Suzie?"

"No." I neglect to mention my tendency for flings with smoldering intellectual beatnik boys.

"Good. They're more trouble than they're worth." It's an odd comment to hear, considering she's obviously more than just a secretary to Mr. Peterson, considering the way they look at each other, the way they behave.

"Are you talking about Mr. Peterson?" I question. I suppose Miss Alvarez didn't expect me to realize they were involved. A lot of teenagers might not notice it, but I do. I can always tell.

"I mean him and all the rest of them too." She puts away her makeup and sighs. "You're, what, fifteen? Why am I telling you this?"

"It's all right, Miss Alvarez. I completely agree. Men are a pain." I don't tell her that I'm not yet fifteen, taking it as a compliment.

She laughs and waves a little bit. "Thank you for listening, Suzie. I should get back. I have a rock star and his manager to baby-sit." I giggle and wave back as she strides out of the ladies' room and leaves me to contemplate. Of course there's some behind-the-scenes drama in the Birdie management. It will be interesting to see how this unfolds. I might not have gotten to spill all my dirty little secrets, but it was nice to spill the dirtiest one. Real Suzie is slowly but surely coming out to play, and as I wash my hands, I can just imagine washing off all of the deceptions and split-personality nonsense.

Kerouac occupies me for the rest of my train trip (five-hundred ninety) and I even manage to hop off the train before Conrad, leaving my suitcase with a porter. I pull off my sweater, revealing my Conrad Birdie Fan Club t-shirt (identical to all the other girls' shirts) and run to where I spot Bridget and Nancy and Daisy Doe in the back of a crowd of adults, waiting for Conrad's arrival. We are all members of the Conrad Birdie army, with our matching insignia.

_We love you Conrad, oh yes we do.Oh, beautiful for spacious skies._

_We love you Conrad, and we'll be true.For amber waves of grain._

_When you're not near us, we're blue.America, America, _

_Oh Conrad, we love you!God shed his grace on thee,_

_God bless America…For he's a fine upstanding patriotic healthy normal..._

_American... American... boy!_

Conrad makes his grand entrance, flanked by Mr. Peterson and Miss Alvarez. In character, all of us shriek. I catch Daisy Doe's eye and we sigh together, _He's so dreamy_. Sweet Apple Suzie stands on her tiptoes and pushes on Mr. Garfein's shoulders to get a better view. Mr. Garfein looks at her with utmost confusion, and she just smiles, _Sorry Mr. Garfein. It's dreamy rock-star time_.

"Conrad Birdie!" shouts Ursula, stepping forward to play hostess. "Welcome to Sweet Apple! Now before we escort you to the Town Hall where the Mayor himself is waiting, I would like to introduce you to the girl upon whom you have chosen to bestow your final kiss... upon... and who will now lead us in reciting the Conrad Birdie Pledge! Kim MacAfee!" Real Suzie cringes at Ursula's grammatical mistake and Sweet Apple Suzie pushes past a throng of adults to scurry into position for the Pledge.

"I, Suzie Sinclair, being of sound mind and body, do hereby promise to be loyal, courteous, steadfast and true to Conrad Birdie and the United States of America, both indivisible, with liberty and justice for all!" After we finish the Pledge, we break out screaming and jumping up and down. Real Suzie always feels slightly suicidal after the Pledge, but she gets over said suicidal impulses quickly and thinks of all of the boys and coffee and poetry that makes life worth living, and reminds herself that Conrad is just a passing fad amongst the teenagers. As we squeal, we begin skipping off to the courthouse, Ursula snuggling into Conrad's arm, the rest of us dashing after.

_For he's a fine upstanding, patriotic, healthy normal American boy! _

_For he's a fine upstanding, patriotic, healthy normal American boy!_

After picking up my suitcase from the porter, I rejoin the crowd. Up ahead, I see Bridget and Daisy Doe sauntering coolly as always, Bridget in the lead. Though she can be a pain, I rather like Bridget. She's not quite so bubbly and giddy as some of the other girls. In turn, Bridget regards me as a "city sophisticate" and allows me to frequent her inner circle if I so choose. Not just anyone is allowed in Bridget's inner circle. Unlike many of the girls in her inner circle, I'm not her lackey, but her equal; probably because I'm a "city" girl.

"Oh, Suzie, can you believe it? Conrad's here! He's walking the very ground we walk on every day!" Penelope expostulates, appearing at my side. Penelope is not allowed in Bridget's inner circle. Penelope's a dear, but she doesn't quite fit in somehow. She tries a bit too hard to belong, I think, and we keep her around just to have someone else around, round out the numbers. I feel bad about it, but it isn't as if we're mean to her. She kind of tags along with me a lot, and I guess she thinks we're friends, and most of the time I don't mind her. Just, sometimes, like right now, she can be so damp that I want to scream. Instead, I force a smile.

"I know it!" I reply. I'm not sure what I'm even referring to, but it's just a thing to say when I'm lost for comprehensible things to say. "Hey, look, there's Margie and Helen. I'm going to go say hi." Before Penelope can follow, I dash ahead to where Margie and Helen are walking. They aren't terribly deep girls, but they're sweethearts and great for aimless chit-chat and exaggerated movie star-esque behaviors.

"Hi, Margie, hi, Helen!" I greet them, looping my arms through theirs. "How are things?"

"Suzie!" exclaims Helen, giving me an affected European-style cheek kiss-kiss. "Things are wonderful. How was the city?"

"Fabulous as always, darling," I reply. "Good shopping, good coffee..." I pause and lower my voice, dropping the bomb before I can think better of it. "Good boys."

"Oh, Suze! Tell us every little thing," Margie squeals.

"Well," I begin, contemplating how much to tell their innocent ears. "His name is Smokey. He's very sweet and very romantic... and a very... good... kisser." I whisper the last part and watch them turn bright red.

"Ooooh!" they shriek in chorus.

"Oh, Suzie, you're so bad," Helen giggles. "Had you known him more than a day before this?"

"No," I say plainly. "And I don't intend on maintaining the relationship either. You know, the distance and all that. So please don't make a big fuss about it, all right? It was just a fling." They look disappointed – no _Goin' steady! Goin' steady! _about Suzie and her city boyfriend. "Enough about me, though. Aren't you thrilled for Conrad?"


	8. Well, You Gotta Be Sincere

Well, You Gotta Be Sincere

We arrive at the courthouse in an absolute mob, all swarming eagerly about the front steps, where Conrad stands posily and the Mayor takes center stage. He loves having his fifteen minutes of fame. Next to me on one side are the overly enthused MacAfees, minus Kim, who's off placating Hugo, and on the other side are the happy stepsisters Ursula and Deborah Sue, gossiping gleefully. I stand with my hip cocked out and my chest thrust out the tiniest bit. After Helen's calling me bad, I'm beginning to embrace it. Bad Girl Suzie Sinclair, Beatnik Poet on the Rise. No – Bad Girl Ava Sinclair, Beatnik Poet on the Rise. I like it.

Deborah Sue waves Ursula off to remove their embarrassing mother and then turns to me for a silent screaming session. So much for Bad Girl Ava Sinclair – it's back to Sweet Apple Suzie for now. "Mother, I'm going to take you home. It's too crowded here," Ursula says, trying to pull her mom away. Mrs. Merkle, for her part, resists, and pulls out of her daughter's grasp.

"You'll have to drag me out the hair," Mrs. Merkle replies, waving Ursula away. "Now go over there!" Ursula re-joins Deborah Sue and I. The Mayor clears his throat and we all turn to him, pretending as if we're listening to the pretentious nonsense that he spouts off. I, like the other teenage girls, am paying very little attention, and am instead focusing my attention on Conrad, though probably for different reasons. While the other girls are thinking, Sigh, Conrad is so dreamy, I'm thinking, Wow, Conrad's pants are shiny. It's true – they're a bright silver color that's putting me in the mind of the Tin Man.

"AAAAHHH!" Ursula squeals suddenly, interrupting my shiny-pants revelation. "He said it! He said the name! AAAAHHH!" More girls, including myself, join in her second squeal.

"What is it?" asks the Mayor, startled. "All I said was Conrad Birdie."

"AAAAAAAHHHH!" we all shriek. Deborah Sue grabs my wrists and we scream in each other's faces. I notice that Alice and Freddie snuck in late. I hope he didn't try anything. Alice is one of the most innocent of all of us, and her innocence is better off preserved than harmed by Freddie the playboy. Whatever the case may be, she's joined the shrieking too, and I can see Miss Alvarez looking amusedly over our hysteria.

"Now, if you girls don't stop that, I can't finish my speech!" says the Mayor.

"Who cares about your speech? We want to hear from Conrad!" Ursula shouts, garnering approval from the rest of the teenagers. Dutifully, we nod feverishly: Yes, Conrad! "Speak to us, oh beautiful one! Tell us how you make that glorious sound that even now, in anticipation of it, has reduced me to a snarling, raging, panting jungle beast!" As she goes down on bended knee, I see Miss Alvarez give Conrad a Go-with-it look. Getting into Performance Mode as we all sigh, Conrad takes Ursula's hand and a guitar chord strums.

_You gotta be sincere_.

"Edna! What's the matter?" the Mayor shouts. It seems as if his wife has passed out from the excitement. Ignoring the Mayor, Conrad continues, extending his other hand to a starstruck Daisy Doe. Bridget looks furious- after all, she's the queen bee. Daisy Doe's just her sidekick, her follower. Things like this aren't supposed to happen to Daisy Doe.

_You gotta be sincere_.

"Mr. Birdie! What are you doing?" asks the Mayor, tending to his wife.

_You gotta feel it here, cause if you feel it here, then you're gonna be honestly sincere._

On "here", he rotates his silver pelvis just _so _and the entire crowd gasps, their eyes going wide. How obscene, the adults whisper. How exciting! the teens counter. How mind-numbingly... absolutely... shinily... _sexy_, I think. The hand Deborah Sue isn't clutching flies up to my hair and smoothes my skirt, my tongue runs over my lips, and I shake my torso. Real Suzie is on the rampage. As Conrad drops Ursula and Daisy Doe and prances in front of my half of the crowd, I push past the MacAfees and lean into Conrad, with Helen, Charity, and – most interestingly – Mrs. MacAfee following my example. I never thought I'd find Conrad sexy, I mean, his pictures don't do it for me or anything, but... oh my.

_If what you feel is true (really feel it)_

_You make them feel it too (write this down now)_

_You gotta be sincere, honestly sincere,_

_Man you've gotta be sincere!_

When he looks into my eyes, unlike the others, I don't blush or turn away or giggle foolishly. I stare him head-on and nod ardently behind my cat-eyed glasses. Who cares what he's saying. I tried not to think about it before, but I admit that Conrad is very, very fun to look at, so long as you tune out the inane words coming from his mouth. Maybe I just had to see him in person.

_If you're really sincere, if you're really sincere._

_If you feel it in here, then it's gotta be right – _

_Oh baby! Oh honey!_

_Hug me! Suffer!_

We dance and then promptly drop like flies, first Helen, then Mrs. MacAfee, then Charity, and last but not least, _moi_. Losing consciousness is a marvelous feeling: you simply release everything and collapse. After a few glorious seconds of nothingness, I am revived by Freddie – I'm surprised he doesn't try to wake me with a kiss like Sleeping Beauty – and I rejoin the festivities, standing on tiptoe to watch Conrad spin Nancy around.

_In everything I do- my sincerity shows through!_

_I look you in the eye, don't even have to try- _

_It's automatic, I'm sincere!_

_When I sing about a tree- I really feel that tree._

_When I sing about a girl, I really feel that girl_

_I mean I really feel sincere!_

Mr. Miller hoists his stepdaughter Ursula onto his shoulders and they, along with Penelope, Mr. Garfein, and Helen, form the "tree" that Conrad sings about, Helen being the part that he "really feels". Kim plays the part of the girl that he really feels, much to Hugo's infuriation. "Oh, I can't believe he's here, Suzie!" Penelope whispers once she abandons tree formation. People who say my name in excess – like Penelope does – often have their names said back to them by me in cheerfully sarcastic tones: "I'm utterly thrilled, Penelope!"

_If you're really sincere, if you're really sincere._

_If you feel it in here, then it's gotta be right – _

_Oh baby! Oh honey!_

_Hug me! Suffer!_

As most of the girls break into a perfectly choreographed dance – the same one, in fact, that we performed in our earlier cluster of Conrad-worship – Alice, Deborah Sue and I begin to shimmy our shoulders, very sexy-like. The Mayor and his wife are inconveniently standing behind us, and immediately chastise their daughter Alice. However, Conrad's music must have some sort of telepathic quality that messes up our brains, because Alice just shrugs them off in an uncharacteristically rebellious way and continues shimmying. All of the teen girls excepting the three of us pass out, leaving us three to scream bloody murder. Oh, and scream we do, with no regard for each others' eardrums. Then we hop over the limp bodies and begin dancing again, with the others joining in as they become coherent. My eyes stay focused on Conrad's built, sparkly body – who knew that I would actually find myself attracted to him? I must be going insane.

_You gotta be sincere, oh, oh, oh,_

_You gotta feel it here, oh, oh, oh my baby!_

_Oh, my baby, oh yeah!_

_Oh, my baby, oh yeah!_

"Harvey Johnson! I want you home this minute, do you hear me?" his mother shouts, over the din of our snapping, skipping crowd. She drags him away by the ear and Helen, who was swing-dancing with him a mere few minutes ago. It's only Harvey, after all.

_Well ya gonna be sincere! Well ya gonna be sincere! YEAH!_

_Well ya gonna be sincere! Well ya gonna be sincere! YEAH!_

_Well ya gonna be sincere! Well ya gonna be sincere! YEAH!_

After we wave our arms around a bit, I grab Penelope's shoulders, Penelope grabs Alice's, and Alice grabs Margie's, and we conga past the courthouse's front steps, passing a mirror-image line of Kim, Nancy, Bridget, and Daisy Doe. Then we wave our arms around again.

_Oh, my baby, oh yeah! _

_Oh, my baby, oh yeah!_

_Well ya gonna be sincere! Well ya gonna be sincere!_

_Oh, my baby, oh yeah!_

_Oh, my baby, oh yeah! _

_Oh, my baby, oh yeah! _

_Oh my baby! Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah!_

We conga around Conrad, join Kim's line to form a circle, and skip around him like he is our altar and we are worshiping him. I drink in his gyrating hips like I haven't seen a decent man in years – even though I was with one last night. I don't appreciate Conrad as a person, a musician, or an idol – but as a body, my he is attractive. He swings those hips in a slow one-two-three and I vaguely hear Ursula shriek as we melt around him like eight teenybopping Wicked Witches of the West and slide once more into unconsciousness...

_We love you Conrad, oh yes we do._

_We love you Conrad, and we'll be true._

By 7:30 the next morning, the entire Conrad Birdie Fan Club has long since awoken and set up camp on the MacAfees' front lawn. Ursula is going strong, but the rest of us are on the verge of collapsing once more, not from Conrad's presence but from lack of sleep. I lost count at 4,000 – but we've been singing "We Love You Conrad" since 8:00 last night. I can barely sing, I'm yawning so frequently. Between this and my late night with Smokey, I'm possibly the least coherent of any of us, and it isn't hard to tell. Of course, we're all completely wiped out and full of complaints.

"I'm _tired_, Ursula!" Margie whines, interrupting our tired chorus.

"We've been here ALL NIGHT," Deborah Sue adds, prompting nods of agreement from all of us.

"We promised to sing the Birdie song 10,000 times, didn't we?" Ursula asks defiantly. "Well, we've got 5,276 to go, so... SING!" She helps us to our feet and we begin again, with more venom than I suspected possible.

_We love you Conrad, oh yes we do._

_We love you Conrad, and we'll be true._


	9. It Really is Sublime

It Really is Sublime...

The next two days are a blur of telephone calls and the Birdie song and dress comparison as we prepare for the Ed Sullivan Show. Everybody's going to be there to watch Conrad kiss Kim; everybody, that is, except my mother and her husband, who decide to stay home at the last minute for no discernable reason. It's the social event of forever, the gleaming moment in our town's history, but so much for that, my mother and her husband want to stay home and cuddle.

Instead, I get a ride from Bridget's parents. They're driving their latest car, a glimmering new model that's all the rage. Daisy Doe's sitting in the back seat, presumably also getting a ride, although I'm guessing it's more just so Bridget can show off her new car. The ride over is a whirl of chatter about Conrad and our dresses, yet another way for Bridget to show off. She's wearing a red satiny number, very stylish to be sure, and we spend the appropriate amount of time gushing over it as she preens. Daisy Doe's dress is reminiscent of a First Communion with a blue sash tired around the middle and matching blue pearls, and she's allowed exactly three compliments before we go back to Bridget's. They are in one of their more materialistic moods today, and Bridget's being especially snobbish, but somehow, it isn't bothersome. My role in Bridget's group isn't a follower, but instead the "City Sophisticate", whose knowledge of city things is appreciated, respected, admired even. My "sophistication" is novel to Bridget, who allots me four compliments. No matter what I wear, she regards it as city style. Today it's an aqua sleeveless dress, high-heeled shoes, my trademark pearls jazzed up with a rhinestone brooch, plus my ever-present aqua scarf and cat-eye glasses. The combination of bare shoulders and high heels could be considered "risqué", but what can I say? I'm a bad girl. Bad Girl Suzie Sinclair, Risqué Bad Girl Suzie Sinclair.

Bridget is caught by playboy Freddie as we're walking in, so I stay behind with Daisy Doe. I feel bad that she's gotten herself in a position for always playing second fiddle. Though Bridget is my friend, I'm fully aware that she can be awful to people without assets such as "city sophistication" or social status. "I like your shoes better than Bridget's," I whisper to her. She smiles, and I realize it isn't a false compliment – they're a pretty bronze color, much nicer than Bridget's plain black ones.

Daisy Doe and I join Karl at the back of a crowd, standing up to see over the adults sitting in front of us. Bridget and Freddie pushed their way to the front row of seats, right next to Ursula, and Freddie wraps his arm around both of them, much to Ursula's mother's annoyance. Karl must be heartbroken; though he razzed Hugo for pinning Kim with the other boys, I know he wants to do the same to Bridget. True to form, Daisy Doe wants Karl too, proof that she wants everything that Bridget has. I scoot across the aisle to leave the two of them alone; for once, I'd love to see Daisy Doe triumphant. Craning my neck to see over Mr. Henkel, Penelope's father, I pop out my hip and stare at Conrad like there's no tomorrow, my face betraying my lust. Oh, Lord, I must be going insane. I am actually honest-to-God _fawning _over Conrad Birdie. This isn't a Sweet Apple Suzie act of pretense. I am _actually fawning_. The next thing I know I'll be daydreaming about china patterns and what to name the children. No. Real Suzie creates a mantra: _I am only lusting for his body. I am only lusting for his body_. Absently, I wonder if he drinks coffee. Oh, no, I'm fawning... _I am only lusting for his body..._

_Oh, one last kiss, oh, give me one last kiss._

_It never felt like this, no never felt like this._

_You know I need your love – oh, oh, oh!_

_Oh give me one last kiss. _

_Oh, one more time, oh, baby one more time._

_It really is sublime, oh, honey, so sublime._

_You know I need your love – oh, oh, oh!_

_Oh, give me one last kiss!_

_Ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-by, gi-ive me one last kiss._

_Ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-by, gi-ive me one last kiss._

Mr. Peterson pushes Kim into the spotlight, and she and Conrad stare each other down, walking in a circle, Kim's eyes disclosing the lust running through her. I'm no doubt wearing a similar look: thirsty for Conrad's body. _Only lusting for his body..._ Oh, what have I become? A squealing teenybopper like all the rest?

_Oh, one last kiss, oh, give me one last kiss._

_It never felt like this, no never felt like this._

_You know I need your love – oh, oh, oh!_

_Oh give me one last kiss. _

Mr. MacAfee drags Kim away from Conrad and Conrad instead sings to the crowd of girls that I'm inherently a part of. Daisy Doe and I try to climb over the adults blocking our path to Conrad and are promptly scolded. "You could do so much better," Mr. Henkel tells me, pushing me off his shoulder, while Mrs. Garfein (who's decked to the nines in a chartreuse lacy dress and hat) wags her finger at me, as if to say, Shame on you. I sulk and feast my eyes on Conrad, who isn't shiny today, but still very attractive. Daisy Doe does the same, with Karl keeping her company in her Conrad-less state.

_Oh, one more time, oh, baby one more time._

_It really is sublime, oh, honey, so sublime._

_You know I need your love – oh, oh, oh!_

_Oh, give me one last kiss!_

_Ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-by, gi-ive me one last kiss._

_Ba-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-by, gi-ive me one last kiss._

After a brief incident with Randolph, Kim's little brother, making a spectacle of himself, we are once again given the pleasure of Conrad singing straight at us. Even in my spellbound state, I can realize fully the one-dimensional quality of the lyrics. The lyrics, however, are not what make Conrad so appealing- it's his body body body. He slides over to us, pelvis first, and I attempt once again to climb over Mr. Henkel and the Garfeins in order to reach him and stroke that sexy chest of his. I'm not sure if it's Sweet Apple Suzie being generally teenybopperish or Real Suzie obeying her lusty hormones, but at the moment, they have united into one passion-spurred entity, and this new Suzie is pushed away by Mr. Kinkerman and lectured by Mrs. Garfein. (Mr. Garfein is rather clueless to most of the goings-on.) This time, I put up a fuss, waving my arms around hysterically and pouting furiously as Conrad shimmies on the floor.

_Oh, one last kiss, oh, give me one last kiss._

_It never felt like this, no never felt like this._

_You know I need your love – oh, oh, oh!_

_Oh give me one last kiss. _

_One last kiss! One last kiss!_

_Oh give me one last kiss!_

Deborah Sue, Helen, Alice, Margie and Ursula get up and form a semicircle around Conrad as the rest of us sway and sing along. I notice Harvey begin swaying the wrong way and his mother correcting him. Poor guy. Sandwiched in between his mother and the town's other single mother – though she's undoubtedly single for other reasons – Mrs. Kinkerman, Nancy's mom, Harvey looks miserable on this day of all days. As I'm swaying, I notice Miss Alvarez and Hugo appear next to me, but I pay it no mind.

_One last kiss! One last kiss! _

_Oh give me one last _

The moment we've all been waiting for is upon us. We clasp our hands over our hearts and watch avidly as Conrad dips Kim, leaning in in preparation for the kiss.

"Brace yourself, chick," he says. Not exactly sweet nothings whispered in her ear, but okay.

"Brace yourself, Conrad Birdie!" Hugo shouts, suddenly right next to Conrad. In a blur, he pulls Kim away and swings a fist in Conrad's face. He's down in a flash, with Ursula and the Mayor's wife tending to his poor lifeless body. Amongst the frenzy, I realize that my feelings for Conrad have vanished with his sudden absence of consciousness. Why have I lusted so? I'm beginning to believe Conrad's gyrations and very presence have a hypnotic quality, bewitching otherwise sensible human beings into states of madness.

"Hugo! You hit him!" Kim exclaims, stating the obvious over Ursula's high-pitched wails.

"He deserved it! He was a... a thief of love!" Hugo retorts. It's all I can do to keep from breaking out laughing; they're taking a publicity stunt – for that's all it is – so seriously! All of the girls are hysterical, breathing shallowly, crying, gasping, embracing tearfully.

"Hugo Peabody, I never want to speak to you again!" Kim cries, her pink dress billowing as she runs out of the theatre, Hugo chasing wildly after her. I see some of the girls glaring at his retreating figure, as if to say, We hate you. You hit Conrad. Go die in a corner.

"I demand to know who's responsible for this! Who let that kid in here?" Mr. Peterson fumes, acting tougher than he really is.

Miss Alvarez steps forward, looking terribly underdressed in tight pants and a sweater. "I did, Albert." The crowd gasps again.

"Rosie?" Mr. Peterson asks, astounded. I never imagined Miss Alvarez capable of such deviancy – and I congratulate her silently.

"Consider it a sort of – farewell present to you and Miss Rasputin," she replies coolly, gesturing to a blowsy woman with a feather boa sitting next to Mr. Peterson's aged mother and the Mayor. "Wear it in good health." She turns on her heel and begins to walk out, all of our eyes on her, wondering what will happen next. Privately, I'm glad that Miss Alvarez orchestrated this little she-bang; otherwise, who knows what I could have done under the influence of Conrad-lust? I'm almost positive that I'm the only teenage girl that's happy about Conrad's being out for the count, despite my aghast appearance. Mr. Peterson calls out to her, stopping her in her tracks.

"Rosie! Come back! You can't leave me alone like this!" he shouts, clearly terrified.

"Oh, you're not alone, Albert," she says with simpering sarcasm. "You're on television!" She sweeps her arm out, grandly motioning to the camera while we all primp, suddenly conscious of the cameras documenting our every move and broadcasting to millions of families who are eagerly watching. Left alone by Miss Alvarez, Mr. Peterson nervously begins to sing, stepping in front of Conrad's prostrate form to cover up and motioning for us to do the same.

_For he's a fine upstanding, patriotic, healthy normal American boy! _

_For he's a fine upstanding, patriotic, healthy normal American boy!_


	10. The Grand Finale of Suzie, Divided

The Grand Finale of Suzie, Divided

In shock, Bridget's parents drive us home. None of us say a thing – we're all to astounded, Bridget and Daisy Doe at Hugo's hitting Conrad, me at my own temporary insanity. I thank God in heaven for Miss Alvarez. I shudder to think what would have happened if I would have stayed in my Conrad-hypnotized state. It sounds like a bad B-movie horror film: _Hypnotized Teenyboppers from Hell_.

I tiptoe through my house, expecting my mom and so-called stepfather to be asleep. Well, he is, but she most certainly is not. "We saw what happened," she says. "I knew the Peabody boy would come to no good. His father's an alcoholic, you know."

I didn't know, actually, but I don't particularly care. My feet are killing me and I have a throbbing headache – no doubt from all the screaming. "Yes, it is a shame that Hugo's come unhinged. Now, excuse me, I'm going to take a bubble bath and go to bed."

I try to get past her, but she yanks my arm and turns me around. "Wait a minute, young lady." Her voice turns steely and cold. "So, I got a call from your father today. He said a young man named Smokey came around yesterday, looking for someone he called his 'beautiful Ava' and who bore a striking resemblance to you. Do you know what that might be about?"

Oh, Smokey, you fool. Why did you have to remember where I _lived_? Why did you have to call on my _father_? Luscious Smokey, you have just unknowingly ruined my life. I keep my mouth shut: no use spouting off incriminating information.

"Suzanne Elizabeth Sinclair, don't you think you can pull a fast one on me. This is the end, do you hear me? No more weekend jaunts to the city. You have lied to us for the very last time, young lady." She pauses to shake her head at my delinquency. "How could you be with anyone named Smokey? It isn't even a real name, for God's sake." Another pause while she brandishes a seafoam green diary. "And what in the world is _this_?"

"My journal!" I shriek, trying to snatch it from her hands. "Get your hands off of that! That's my journal! You _stole _my journal?"

She opens to a random page and begins to read. "'His hands have infinite depth. He wraps those arms around me. Paradise. I am drowning in his smoldering passion.'" The woman I used to acknowledge as my mother rips the page from my journal and waves it around angrily. "What the hell are you _doing_, Suzanne? Are you on drugs? Are you having sex? Am I such a bad mother that I've pushed my only daughter to become a nymphomaniacal drug addict? Am I really that bad?"

I've been trying to keep my cool, but this last remark pushes me over the edge. "I am NOT a nymphomaniacal drug addict? I haven't even lost my virginity! Good God, Mother, what do you think I am? A harlot?"

"These poems sound pretty sexual," she retorts. "Well, it doesn't matter. You are grounded, do you hear me? No more trips to the city, no more fan club meetings, nothing!"

"I DON'T CARE!" I shout. "I don't even _like _Conrad Birdie. You know where I'm meeting all those boys? Writing all this poetry? I'm going to _beatnik cafes_. At midnight. In the city. All by myself. Yes, that's right, I'm sneaking out and meeting boys. Hot, sexy beatnik boys. And you know what? After they buy me coffee and I read some poetry – yes, I'm a beatnik! – we go make out in an alleyway. Sometimes they even feel my breasts! What do you think about that, _Mother_? Your little baby girl's all grown up."

"You are grounded forEVER, missy. Do you hear me? FOREVER."

"I DON'T CARE! See if I do!" I scream, grabbing my journal from her and running to my room, slamming the door behind me. In a fit of teenage anger, I open the door again and yell, "FECK YOU!" before slamming it once more. She can't get mad at me because I didn't say the actual f-word. Besides, I don't care if she does get mad. I am _never _coming back. Stripping off my dress, I throw it on the bed and change into my pedal pushers, turquoise sweater, and saddle shoes. I take the rhinestone pin off of my pearls and brush my hair, re-tying my scarf. I adjust my glasses and look in the mirror. It's as if I'm looking at a new girl. None of this Sweet Apple/New York/Real nonsense. Just Suzie, united. And Whole Suzie is ready to take the world by storm. Oh, I can't believe she's even trying to do this to me. She violated my privacy, stole my stuff, and gave me the most ridiculous restrictions I think I've ever heard. She can't stop me from doing what I want. I'm a big girl now. I grab two fifty-dollar bills out of my bank and put one in my shoe and the other down my bra – just in case – then put another hundred dollars in my purse, along with my journal, a pen, and a couple of quarters in case some place doesn't take change.

I shove the window open and climb out, rustling through the bushes, careful not to snag my clothes. I may be running away, but I don't have to look like a street urchin. I walk down my block, past Nancy's house, past Charity's, past Freddie's. I'm furious with my mother but I feel liberated. I am no longer divided. No more lies. I am never going home again.

The first person I see is Harvey, sitting forlornly on a bench in the park, all by himself. Those glasses of his actually don't make him look too bad. If only he'd lose the bow tie and the odd sticky-outty thing at the back of his hair. "Hey, Harvey," I say, plopping down next to him. "I'm leaving home. Want to join me?"

He looks at me like I'm crazy. "What are you talking about?"

"I only mean what I say. I'm leaving home. Do you want to come with me?" I say this flippantly, sure, but I mean every word. "I can tell that you want to."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because you're miserable. Everyone thinks you're a geek. Your mother's a controlling witch." I pause, collect my thoughts, and continue sincerely. "But you, Harvey, you are _not _a geek. Don't think I can't see you for what you are."

"What am I, then?"

"You're a sweet, caring, intelligent guy, and I bet that somewhere inside of you, you're cool."

"Cool?" He says this like he'd never even dreamed of being it.

"Yes. Cool." I pause. "What do you think of me, Harvey?" He looks doubtful. "There's no right answer."

"Well," he begins nervously, "I think you're pretty... and smart... and..."

"Do you think I'm sexy, Harvey? Do I make you hot?"

He turns a furious shade of crimson, probably never having had the word 'sexy' uttered in his presence ever, especially by a girl, let alone the phrase 'do I make you hot?'. "Mmmmmm," he mumbles.

"Well? Do I?"

"Mm-hmm," he nods, looking down. I pick up his chin and stare into his eyes, a luscious brown color behind the glasses.

"That's nothing to be ashamed of. I think you're cute too. But I don't want this to be purely physical. Tell me about yourself. What do you want to do with your life? What are your secret, dark desires?"

"To be honest? I want to be a psychiatrist," he says. "I want to have a girlfriend."

"Hey, now that's cool," I encourage him. "Psychiatry is fascinating. Do you know what I want to do?"

"What do you want to do?" he asks me, his blush finally fading a little bit.

"I want to be a poet. A beatnik poet. I want to go to New York City and be a beatnik poet."

"Recite some poetry, then." Normally I wouldn't perform on command, but I feel this is as close to flirting as he gets.

"Okay. 'More than he seems. Eyes full of mystery. Dark, sumptuous. Fallacies evaporate and we are left alone.'" I smile at him a little bit. "It's all right if you don't get it. A lot of people don't at first."

"No, I understand perfectly," he says slowly. "Did you just make that up?"

"Yeah."

"It's really good."

"Thanks." Before I can think better of it, I lean in and press my lips to his. I see his eyes go wide in shock and surprise.

"Wow," he breathes, once I stop kissing him. "Wow."

"You like that?" He nods fervently, the blush creeping back into his cheeks. "Me too." I kiss him again, deeper and longer, and when I come up for air, I take him by the hand and pull him up. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

We are off on a mystical journey, Harvey and I don't let go of his hand as we walk. Maybe we won't stay together forever (probably we won't) but I am very conscious of my status as Harvey's First Girlfriend. I am preparing him for life, when he will have other girlfriends, and I want him to know how it is. Besides, the more I look at him the cuter he gets.

"Why are you running away from home?" he asks me abruptly.

"My mother found out that I was sneaking out of my dad's apartment in the city and then she stole my journal and read my poetry and called me a nymphomaniacal drug addict."

"Oh." He pauses for a minute, then asks me, "What's nymphomaniacal mean?"

"Addicted to sex."

"Oh. Are you?"

"No," I laugh. "I've never even done it. I mean, I've done lots of stuff, but no… I'm a virgin. I'm not a drug addict, either." We walk in silence for a minute, and then I ask him, "What about you? Why are you running away?"

"Because you asked me to."

I look at his face and say, "No, why are you _really_? I'm sure you have a reason."

"Well, with my mother and my reputation..." He trails off. "You said you were sneaking out of your dad's apartment in the city? I thought he lived here."

"Oh yeah. My real dad lives in New York."

"Your real dad?"

"My parents were never married. My mom married my so-called 'father' to save face. Heaven forbid she have a kid out of wedlock."

"Oh. You know, I don't even know my dad," Harvey offers quietly. "I don't know where he lives. I don't even know his name."

"I guess that we both have pretty dysfunctional families, then," I say softly, squeezing his hand. "It's all right, though. We can brave the world together, yeah?"

"Yeah." He leans in and kisses me long and hard. For someone who's just now beginning to kiss, he's very good at it. "You know what, Suzie? You're the best girl I think I've ever met."

"I like you a lot too, Harvey."


	11. Such a Lot of Livin' to Do

Such a Lot of Livin' To Do

I tighten my grip on his hand and we keep walking until we see a large cluster of our peers. Nancy, Kim, Deborah Sue... in the middle is the man that I'm currently fighting back feelings for, one Mr. Conrad Birdie, wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket. Oh, as much as I really love Harvey and all of his innocence right now, I am so, so, attracted to Conrad right now. It seems all of the teenagers are here – it looks like a musical number to me.

_Lots of dates, and no-one to scold you._

_Loop-the-loop and laugh at the view. _

_Moonlight swims, and someone nice to cuddle up to. _

_We got a lot of livin' to do! Wow!_

At "someone nice to cuddle up to", I look right at Harvey with a seductive smile, and he turns bright red. It's odd that I've never realized how cute he is before; usually my hormones scream when they see anyone even remotely attractive. At the same time, he isn't like the other boys I've dated. I want to see him for more than a couple of hours, want to do more than kiss him on a coffeehouse couch.

_There's music to play!You know it!_

_Places to go!You know it!_

_People to see! _

_Everything...Yeah!_

_For you and me!_

I grab Harvey's hands, and as the girls begin a little cutesy dance, we – in unison with Conrad and Kim, Freddie and Ursula, Karl and Margie – begin to tango. Like the trollop I am, I shove my chest a bit too close to his, my pelvis a bit too close to his. He stares in my eyes like he knows what I'm up to but doesn't mind. Innocent little Harvey is proving to be more lusty than I ever imagined.

_Oh, life's a ball, if only you know it._

_And it's all just waiting for you._

_You're alive, so come on and show it._

_Oh, we've got a lot of livin' to ---_

He twirls me in, out, in, and we strut together, arms extended. I'm wearing my most shameless expression of desire, but he isn't complaining. At the same time as the other couples, he dips me deep and leans in for the kiss, just as my hormones are about to scream...

"ALICE!" her mother's voice shouts out. In a split second, I am on the ground, my rear end aching. I scramble up and dash into an alleyway with the rest of the kids, all except Harvey, who turns in circles, confused. "You were supposed to be in bed hours ago! Alice!" We all look at Alice, who seems to be ditching her good-girl nature and rebelling. It seems as if we all are. I am in the midst of a revolution.

"Harvey Johnson, I want you home this minute!" exclaims his mother, shining a flashlight in his eyes. I watch helplessly as he is pulled away from me, from the revolution – and then, when Mrs. Johnson isn't looking, he turns around and runs... right into Mrs. Merkle. Shoot.

"Do you hear me, Deborah Sue? Mother's calling you, Deborah Sue! Deborah – Aahh!" she shrieks as Harvey slams into her and speeds off to where the rest of us hide, leaving Mrs. Merkle in his wake. I smile at him – "_Très impressive, _Harvey."

_There's music to play!_

_Places to go!_

_People to see!_

_Everything...Yeah!_

_For you and me!_

_Oh, life's a ball, if only you know it. _

_And it's all just waiting for you._

_You're alive, so come on and show it!_

_Oh, we've got a lot of livin',_

_Such a lot of livin'._

We snap, spin, and lean until we're dizzy, with Conrad still the center of attention. He seems to be the cause of our rebellion – after all, without his being here, Hugo and Kim wouldn't have broken up (I knew it I knew it I knew it) and we wouldn't be hypnotized by his body into states of passion and lust. His mere presence fills us with hormones, turns our minds inside out.

_What a lot of livin' to do! Ooh – ooh – ooh – ooh!_

I lose Harvey amongst the leaping throng. Penelope and Margie spin and dance around me, forcing me away from him. For good measure, I push off a fence to do a rotation and segue into a flying leap, just to express my freedom and glee. I _am _feeling gleeful; for once in my life I don't just want to kiss and run. I can distinguish my lust for Conrad from my affection for Harvey, thank goodness. In fact, I'm wondering if I don't actually want to go steady with Harvey.

"Where are we all going?" I ask Margie, figuring that we're all taking different routes to the same location.

"The Ice House!" she shrieks, clapping her hands together with joy. Penelope has long since skipped off.

"The Ice House?" I question dumbly. "Why?" I've actually been before- about a year ago, Helen's cousin from Boston came to visit and he and I had a bit of a fling. But I can't imagine why we'd be going to the Ice House now, especially in such a big group.

"Because we can, silly! _We've got a lot of livin' to do!_" Margie sings, skipping ahead. "Oh, Suzie, doesn't it feel good to be bad?"

"Margie, dear, you are just finding out what I've known for years," I say, grinning from ear to ear. "Now, have you seen where Harvey's gotten to? I can't find him."

"Why are you looking for _Harvey_?" she asks, wrinkling her nose up in disgust. "Are you... with him?"

"Didn't you see us tangoing? By the way, darling, Bridget will have your head for dancing so close with Karl."

"I know – but... _Harvey_? Why?"

"He happens to be very sweet, and a very good kisser," I reply nonchalantly.

"Didn't you say the same about your city boy? Smokey or whatever?" Margie asks suspiciously.

"Yes, but Harvey's right here, and ever so much more adorably naïve. My feelings for him are beyond physical lust, anyhow. Smokey was only a midnight rendezvous. Pure physical lust. Besides, I like geeky boys."

"But Harvey's a good kisser?" she queries.

"His inexperience is endearing."

"But... he's a good kisser?"

"Yes! Why do you keep saying that?" I ask her, impatiently.

"Because it looks like Daisy Doe thinks so too."

Sure enough, I spot the two of them on a bench right near the Ice House, their mouths fully attached. I can't believe this. That ingrate! I take him under my wing, tell him my dark desires and secrets, make him realize that there's more to him than his bowtie and glasses, give him his first kiss... and what do I get in return? He starts slobbering all over Daisy Doe the first time I turn around! I can't _believe _him. And Daisy Doe! That little slut. I went out of my way to leave her alone with Karl tonight at the Ed Sullivan Show. I wanted to see her win over Bridget, just once! But no, she goes and steals the first guy I've actually considered monogamy with!

My first instinct is to grab Conrad and start making out with him against the Ice House wall. After all, that would be the very best way to make anyone jealous, and he does look terribly sexy in that leather jacket. However, he seems to have his hands full with Kim, who is playing the part of the "sultry older woman" even though she's the exact opposite.

Since Conrad is incapacitated, I wave good-bye to Margie and begin looking for the next best thing: Freddie, the Ultimate Playboy of All Time. He is standing near the entrance to the Ice House with a can of generic beer, his arm around Charity's waist. I'm willing to share, I guess. "Hey Freddie," I say with a flirty grin. "Why are you just standing by the door? All the fun's inside." If it was any other girl wrapped in Freddie's arm, I would be receiving a multitude of death glares; poor prim Charity just looks relieved to have the attention off of her. Freddie is appreciative; I don't often give him the time of day.

"I'm just waiting for a good reason to go inside," he replies, matching my smile. I take him by the arm and pull him inside, Charity following nervously. She seems one of the least willing to join the revolution. I am the _queen _of the revolution. _Vive la resistance_. We find a place to stand, near a ladder that Alice is on top of and Bridget and Karl are towards the bottom of. I'm amused to see that all of the pairs straggling in seem to have found a can of beer to share, and are sputtering as they drink it. It's only generic, for Christ's sake, not like it's hard liquor. The traitors are on a crate, his arm around her shoulder. To spite him, I pull Freddie's arm close to my waist and snuggle in, on Flirtation Autopilot. I am too drunk on revenge to care that I don't find Freddie in the least attractive – he's too sleazy to be sensuous, too skinny to be cute. At this point, I'll do almost anything. My heart has frozen over. I am Estella of Dickens' _Great Expectations_: the beauty who breaks men's hearts.

Conrad and Kim slink in, Kim cuddling with him, Conrad looking very uncomfortable. Perhaps he's finally realized that what he's doing is wrong and a bit pedophilic. Of course, Kim's just spouting the funniest things, all about he being "twenty-seven or twenty-eight, one of the two" and about how she's "been to the Ice House with everyone: Ursula, Deborah Sue, the Girl Scouts." I know Kim, and I know that Kim has partaken in no wild lesbian orgies. I haven't even done that. Most of my attentions are focused on seducing Freddie. Despite his arm around Charity, I am fairly successful: twirling his gel-filled hair through my fingers, blinking slowly behind my cat-eye glasses. He offers Charity a sip of beer and she declines, wearing a demure smile. Right this moment, her naïveté is annoying. When he offers me a sip, I tip my head back and positively chug, just to spite her, licking my lips off with a wicked grin. Freddie is impressed. I have a large chest, and I'll drink beer without the slightest sputter. I am his busty, bad dream girl.

Ursula bursts in, wearing an exaggeratedly lusty expression, with Penelope on her heels. "There you are, oh sensuous one! We've been looking for you everywhere."

"That's nice. Now out of the way, I'm late!" Conrad says distractedly, trying to push past her, clearly unnerved.

"But you don't understand! We're coming with you! You said it yourself, we've got a lot of living to do!"

"Now wait a minute..."

"We'll never go home again! We'll follow you to the ends of the earth!" I neglect to mention to Ursula that we probably don't want to follow Conrad into any combat zones. That's hardly anyone's idea of a good time.

"Moonlight swims!" Deborah Sue shouts blissfully.

"Motorboat races!" adds Helen, matching Deborah Sue's expression of beatitude.

"Loop-the-loop!" Penelope shrieks, trying to top the both of them.

"YEAH!" we all scream. I toss my head back and cuddle into Freddie, practically straddling his skinny frame. I have transcended the borders of flirtation. I am now just behaving like a slut. I feel cheap, like I'm being trampy for the sake of being trampy, but I'm not about to stop now. The new, divisionless Suzie sometimes uses her sensuality as a weapon, a tool of revenge.

_We've got a lot of livin'_

_Such a lot of livin' _

_What a lot of livin'..._

Ursula spins Conrad about and leaps into his arms as we all smoke and drink and flirt, the epitome of teenage rebellion. Our consciences shatter into a thousand pieces all over the floor. Suddenly, Mr. Peterson and Miss Alvarez storm in, the MacAfees and a policeman following. Our song ends and we all hide our beer cans behind our backs, removing our arms from each other. I've always liked breaking the rules – but I'm just now learning what it's like to be caught.

Things go by in a rush. Mr. MacAfee has Conrad arrested, convinced he's been sexually harassing Kim. (More like she's been sexually harassing him... but none of us are about to spill that choice fact.) Hugo turns up and he and Kim are reunited. Shamefully, we all leave the Ice House, our revolution crushed, our spirit of rebellion dead.


	12. The End

The End

I stay the night at Bridget's house. Surprisingly, she takes my side about the whole Harvey situation, once I explain it to her. Maybe she just can't stand to see Daisy Doe win, but she promises to sort things out for me. It really is nice to have friends in high places. The next morning, we all gather at the train station to say good-bye to Conrad. Mr. Peterson has cleverly bailed him out of jail and disguised him as a woman, putting him on the train to New York with his mother. I'm not sad to see him go, honestly. Maybe his coming was good in that it brought about my freedom, the end of my lies, but I'm glad that it's over. I'm thinking that I'm even going to reconcile with my mother. She really isn't so bad. And as for Harvey... well, I always have believed in second chances.

As Conrad leaves, we all sing together, one last good-bye to him, breaking down crying.

_We love you Conrad, oh yes we do._

_We love you Conrad, and we'll be true._


End file.
